THE EARTH IS SLURRED AND I AM SORRY. // vicemag: FIFTY SHADES OF CHICK-FIL-A: MY...

THE EARTH IS SLURRED AND I AM SORRY.

brandi. rotting in the deep south. lover of literature and cats and various things in between.

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FIFTY SHADES OF CHICK-FIL-A: MY POLYAMOROUS CHICK-FIL-A FAN PORN

When I saw the sign for Chic-fil-A beside the signs for BP, Home Depot, Best Buy, Target, the Mattress Store, and WalMart, I could not control my arms. I’m not the kind that lets myself eat fast food that often, because I care about my body, though sometimes, something erupts in me and I want nothing more than floods of fries and meat crammed in my face. I semi-helplessly watched me drive me into the parking lot where a line of minivans was wrapped around the building. I saw then there were only minutes left to close, and knew if I wanted a boneless breast of chicken seasoned to perfection, hand-breaded, pressure cooked in 100 percent refined peanut oil and served on a toasted, buttered bun with dill pickle chips I’d have to go inside.

A young twink in a visor was already locking the doors as I walked up. He had acne scars and khaki shorts with a braided belt. I noticed he was limping. “I’m sorry, the dining room is…,” he began, though as his eyes raised from the ground, lingering at my crotch region, and finally into my handsome face and muscular torso, he grinned and pushed the door back open wide.

Inside they were blasting U2’s “Where The Streets Have No Name.” A skinny young lady wiping down tables with long, slow strokes near the ketchup dispensers held my eye as I came in. Behind the counter, a chunky dork with a gimp arm served the last few at the drive-thru. Two guys in the back area with the fry station had removed their shirts and seemed to be playing a squealing game of grab ass with pairs of fry tongs.

I heard the guy behind me lock the door. “It’s Saturday,” he said. “A special night, for tomorrow we are closed, which means tonight we can stay up… forever.” He sucked his tongue and watched me as he let his khaki shorts and briefs fall to the floor. “Hi, my name is Matthew,” he said sweetly. “Can I take your order?” His junk was shaven. He had ridiculously enormous balls, so fat and veined they seemed more like brains than cum-bunkers. His dick itself was just a head, a carbuncle buried in a mass of reddish pubes and dickne. “That’s a teeny schlong,” I pointed out. Matthew smirked and humped the air. “Chic-fil-A serves no beef,” he said, “but Jesus loves us as we are.” He moved to French me.

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OH MY GOD. THIS IS WHY BLAKE BUTLER IS THE LOVE OF MY LIFE.

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